


careful fear and dead devotion

by lost_decade



Category: Formula E RPF
Genre: Angst, Feelings, Hand Jobs, Love, M/M, Shower Sex, and max/dan, hopefully not too sappy, introspective Jev, mentions of jevcardo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-08-02 03:48:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16297583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lost_decade/pseuds/lost_decade
Summary: It’s in Le Castellet that Jean-Éric realises he isn’t the only one who’s moved on, rain coming down in the pitlane and that strange feeling almost of unreality he always gets being back in the world of F1.





	careful fear and dead devotion

**Author's Note:**

> Set over the weekend of the French Grand Prix. As usual I'm not entirely sure what this is, other than strange meandering angst with feelings. 
> 
> For S and B, thank you for being there and for putting up with me recently.

_I have only two emotions_

_Careful fear and dead devotion_

The National - Don't Swallow the Cap

 

It’s in Le Castellet that Jean-Éric realises he isn’t the only one who’s moved on, rain coming down in the pitlane and that strange feeling almost of unreality he always gets being back in the world of F1. He shivers at the uncharacteristic chill in the air, but the hot-and-cold that prickles at his skin owes more to the unavoidable memories, something almost like when you go back to the house you grew up in and stand outside, wondering at the change in curtains and the lives that inhabit it now, if they take the joy from it that you once did. It always feels like that, to an extent.

Even now, this year when he’s finally turned a corner and each time he races he’s filled with the sense that all along he was stumbling blindly towards the place he was always supposed to be. Even with that there’s something about stepping back into the Red Bull garage that twists in his stomach like a dream that’s slightly off, where the edges are blurred with monsters just waiting to pull the ground from under you.

It’s only a split second, Friday morning during the break between sessions, the touch of Daniel’s hand at the back of Max’s neck and the way the younger driver leans into it, but it’s enough for the bottom to fall unexpectedly out of Jean-Éric’s world. He watches them for the rest of the weekend after that, taking in the little glances, shared and reciprocated, the way Dan’s smile widens whenever Max looks his way, the excuses they make to be near each other.

It isn’t jealousy, Jev decides when he’s done with TF1 for the day, there’s no way it properly could be after all this time. Something about it leaves a sour taste in his mouth though and it lingers in his mind, something sharp and unsavoury gnawing at him as he watches Dan congratulating Max on a decent qualy.

He can’t shake it off, even when he’s tapping his hand impatiently on the steering wheel as he waits for the queue to get out of the circuit to dissipate on Sunday afternoon. His phone vibrates with a text from André asking if he wants to drive out to Gordes. Jean-Éric glances at the message and sees instead Dan’s face in the screen, light glinting off his braces as he’d bitten his lip the very first time that Jean-Éric made him come.

His first instinct is to say no, that he has plans in Monaco, which isn't entirely untrue. Yet all he’d do in Monaco would be to catch up with some friends for dinner and drinks. Any desire to properly socialise with the Riviera crowd is mild enough that he knows it'd be a bad idea and the alternative, moping by himself and probably guiltily wanking over memories he hasn't allowed himself to think of in at least a year, is something he refuses to gift himself.

The sun is sloping down as he turns off the coast road, leaving the glittering sea for the green of groves and vines, the sprawling countryside of Provence bountiful following the wet spring. Gordes is a beacon atop the mountains and valleys of the Luberon, the beauty of it strikes Jev as he switches off the radio that he hadn't been listening to anyway. There's something so pure and unspoilt about the whole landscape, the terracotta brick of the villages that look as if they've stood for centuries; it makes him fiercely proud of his heritage in a way that he’s not the least bit ashamed of. He finds himself wondering how André feels about it, both here and in Nivelles, an impermanence to his life as if everywhere is just passing through. Jean-Éric thinks sometimes how different it must be to have lived in Tokyo so long, the sound and colour, if André misses it. London isn't forever and if Jev questions himself he supposes there's a vague idea in his head that he'll wind up back in Paris for good one day, somewhere in the 6th, with someone beautiful to wake up to every morning, a couple of dogs, maybe even a kid. He wonders what André imagines, if he ever does. Often it feels like for him the only moment that exists is the present one.

Jean-Éric probably wouldn’t admit even if André poked at it, on account of how he’d probably only take the piss, but sometimes when he’s alone in his apartment in London he imagines how it would be to have André there; which side of the sofa he’d be drawn to sit on, which mug he’d pick out of the cupboard before bemoaning the fact that Jev’s coffee machine is off the shelf from John Lewis and not custom made and shipped from Italy. He wonders how André would look cooking breakfast at the stove that Jean-Éric has only used once or twice in the months since he moved in, pictures them going for a run in Hyde Park and taking a boat out on the Serpentine, the muscles in André’s arms rippling with each drag of the oars through the lake. The want lies on his tongue, acrid with the silence he’s forced upon himself and he remembers now how easily the words had always tumbled from Dan’s mouth in the early days, how he’d believed Dan’s feelings could carry him through anything, until the day they eventually ran out.  

He lowers the window a notch as he turns off onto the D2, the air soft with lavender, the breeze relaxing the tension in his frame a little. These are thoughts he knows he should put to one side before arriving at André’s but it’s easier said than done, easy to slip into introspection alone in the rental car with nothing but time and _want_ to colour the journey. _Is it love_ , he wonders not for the first time this weekend, for Daniel. Love or fucking… Jean-Éric’s been known to confuse the two before.

 

André’s place is just outside of town, surrounded by a few hectares of land. The last rays of sunlight are just starting to fade behind the peaks of the mountains when Jev turns onto the narrow road, the house at the end still unlit and just falling into twilight. He takes a moment to gather himself when he switches the engine off, thoughts of Dan, of André ticking through his mind. He knows in part why he was invited here, the flirty tone of the earlier text message not leaving much in doubt. Yet now that he’s arrived, surrounded by all the calm and stillness of the land, he feels almost shy, any proclivity for their usual slow tease and casual, no-strings sex strangely absent.

“Hey you,” André greets when Jean-Éric has finally pulled himself out of his mental slump enough to ring the doorbell. “Good weekend? You remember where the bedroom is to put your things, right?” He kisses Jev briefly on the lips and then walks off in the direction of the kitchen, a pair of barbecue tongs in his hand.

“Dinner will be an hour.”

Jean-Éric had forgotten that André’s interpretation of hosting is basically _help yourself to everything_ which in a way is nice and uncomplicated, but he doesn’t quite know how to communicate that what he needs at present is to be walked through the remnants of the day, to be held and fed and reassured without admitting he needs reassurance, that he’s not anyone’s second best.

“I'll just change and then I'll be right out,” Jev says after him, mildly irritated but not at anything he can specifically pinpoint. The infuriating thing about André is that his uncomplicated approach to life leaves no space for discussion, almost as if there’s never anything to discuss.

Jean-Éric stands there for a long moment before walking down the lengthy hallway that leads to the bedroom, placing his bag down on the low Japanese-style bed and unzipping it. The suit he wore for the dinner on Friday he left in the rental car, but he takes out the rest of his clean clothes, laying them out on the bed and taking some hangers from the cavernous walk-in closet that adjoins the bedroom. The whole interior of the house is white, exposed stone walls and angular lines, more a gallery than a home. It makes Jean-Éric wonder not for the first time where all the reminders are of the things André loves. In Nivelles he remembers there’s slightly more, more personality, the occasional photo of his parents, but not a lot additional to that. It occurs to him now as he walks through André’s closet, pressing his face to the shirts and suits, the soft sweaters that hang there imbued with the scent of André’s skin, that there’s probably a storage unit somewhere in Tokyo, filled with memories and the ghosts of another life. He isn’t sure how to explain to André that he wants to wear his clothes, wants to read his mind enough that he’s only half-afraid of what he might find there. He lets the material slip from his fingers, chiding himself for being so self-indulgent and mopey.

On impulse he decides to take a shower before dinner, wash away the aches of the drive and the remnants of the racetrack that feel like a film ingrained in his skin. There’s a strange intimacy to being in André’s bedroom alone, something about it that he quite likes as he steps into the shower in the en-suite wet room. The window is slightly open, the aroma of meat being grilled on the barbecue outside drifting in on the breeze. There’s the faint sound of the radio, some 70s tune that Jev can’t recall the name of now, and below that the sound of André’s voice joining in with the chorus. He dials the water temperature up a notch, breathing in the steam and leaning back against the brick of the wall a little heavier than intended, the rough of the concrete grazing the sun-kissed skin of his shoulder. He closes his eyes as the water washes over him, wondering if he should have spoken to Dan, dragged him away to talk about things they never have before. He realises too late that his toiletries bag is still in André’s bedroom, and he knows André wouldn’t mind but there’s something that feels almost forbidden when Jev thinks _fuck it_ and reaches for André’s shampoo, something that causes all the blood to rush to his cock when he lathers up André’s shower gel and strokes himself into a lazy semi before stopping himself from going further.  

“I expected to have to shut you up from talking about F1,” André says, when they’re out on the porch at the back of the house, handing Jean-Éric a glass of wine, rich and deep, the earthy mustiness of the Languedoc bursting to life with cherries.“You’ve barely mentioned it.”

Jean-Éric shrugs, sipping at his wine and licking away the residue as it seeps into the cracks in his slightly chapped lips. “It was a weird weekend,” he replies, glancing down at the almost-cooked wagyu beef on the grill, thin lines of fat converging through it like the tributaries of a river, in the knowledge that there isn’t time before eating to have the conversation he thinks he might want to have.

They eat outside on the patio as the stars come up, Max lying just inside by the open door, batting at insects every now and then. The meat is rich and rare, homemade Béarnaise better than any Jean-Éric can ever recall having in any restaurant. Jev wouldn't even begin to know how to make it and he wonders how André does, when he would have found the time. There's so much that Jev wants to know, if he's honest, feels like sending André thirty different Buzzfeed quizzes because it's easier than actually asking.

 

Even though the food is delicious Jev still feels his appetite waning quickly, his earlier mood one that is hard to escape from. André watches him carefully, Jev a little too tired and lost in his own head to be able to rise to the normal levels of banter that usually carries them along. Maybe it’s something in the stillness, nothing around them except the distant lights of the village, the low hum of crickets the only sound cutting through night. After dinner André brings out a bottle of Hennessy and a plate of petit fours so dainty that Jean-Éric can’t imagine him picking them up in the shop he claims to have bought them from in town.

Jean-Éric swirls the too-large measure of cognac around in the glass, inhaling the warmth. “Have you ever lived with anyone?” he asks, unaware until the words come out of his mouth that he’d even been thinking them. André is sitting close to him, one hand resting on Jev’s thigh, the touch so casual and familiar that something about it tears at Jev’s chest. It isn’t just because of Daniel, something deeper that’s been in his mind all season, mostly kept at bay by the focus he has on the title, but creeping to the forefront now without him even wanting it to. He doesn’t want to just fuck on race weekends like he’s twenty-two again. He glances at André out of the corner of his eye, taking in the smile that lingers at the corners of his mouth, a slight amusement that might be a memory or maybe just incredulity at the very idea.

“Yeah, for a while,” Andre replies, moving his hand to rest around Jev’s shoulder, fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck where its grown longer. “Kind of impossible when you’re racing. We were more like flatmates in the end.”

Jev nods, thoughtfully, his mind scrambling to make an unidentified _we_ into an actual person. Man, woman, he doesn’t even know.

“Why?”

Jev sidesteps the question, turning the conversation to New York instead. They’re due in the sim in a week and he distracts himself with filling André in on everything he knows about the track. He finds that any nerves he has about the championship are tinged with a healthy positivity; it isn’t arrogance but there’s a self-belief that is even stronger after Zurich. Focussing on that is easier than letting his thoughts linger on the unease that churns in his stomach, the uncertainty of the things he can’t control. They move over to the big wicker garden sofa, sitting close enough that Jev can feel the heat radiating from André’s thighs through the material of the shorts he’s wearing. Always when they’re together it feels as though André is constantly watching him, Jean-Éric longing to ask what it is that he sees. So often Jean-Éric feels as if he’s oversharing when he talks, trying to compensate for the lack of reciprocal response, the many-layered facets of his past spooling out in desperation to build a connection. His words have run dry now though, the exhaustion of never getting anything tangible back a weight that he figures he’ll just have to bear if he wants to keep on doing this. André touches him again, fingertips skimming over the inside of his elbow where the light linen shirt he’s wearing is rolled up. Jean-Éric leans into the touch, hungry for the comfort it affords, the thought occurring to him that if it’s a prelude to a seduction he’ll probably go with it whether his heart is truly in the act or not. It’s a realisation that makes him shiver and curse himself silently for his willingness to give himself over just for the surety of not losing something that he’s become so hopelessly invested in.

The moonlight reflects off the surface of the glass of the coffee table as Jev leans over to place his glass down on it, turning and shifting one leg beneath himself so he’s facing André, meeting his eyes almost shyly. The solar lights dotted around the edges of the garden are the only real light, barely anything when lost beneath the vastness of the landscape, it makes Jev feel smaller than he has in a long time, his teeth catching on his lip when André takes his chin in his hand, thumb rubbing over Jev’s lip. Jev tilts his head back, closing his eyes to escape momentarily from the heat in André’s gaze, making a soft noise low in his throat when André’s stubble rasps against his jaw, when the softness of André’s lips press against his cheek, his forehead, the tip of his nose. Jev exhales slowly, parting his lips to the touch of André’s tongue, letting himself be eased into the kiss, slow and gentle, André’s hands stroking down his jaw as he licks into his mouth. His mouth is rich with the oak of the brandy, the tang of cigarettes, and Jean-Éric lets himself imagine for a moment tasting him every day, always.

“Something happened this weekend, didn’t it?” André whispers, pulling back and licking at his lips in a gesture that makes Jev ache. “It’s okay you know. If you fucked someone. It’s okay with me.”

Jev coughs, half-choking on his own saliva as he pulls away from André’s touch. The calm bluntness of André’s words sting like salt-water in a cut, matter of fact-ness as if it’s a throwaway thing, take or leave. Jean-Éric finds himself thinking of straight after the race in Santiago, André still with his helmet on and a wildness in his eyes as they pierced into Jev’s own. He doesn't want it to ever be _okay._   

“It’s…no. No, Jesus, André I didn’t fuck anyone.” Jean-Éric's voice is filled with hurt. He pulls away, out of André’s embrace, taking his glass with him over to the edge of the pool and slipping off his Havaianas, sitting dangling his feet in the water, cooling now that the heat of the day is off it. It occurs to him that this perhaps comes across as storming off, but he knows there’s too much in his face, that he’d have no way to protect himself if André looked into his eyes right now. He swallows the rest of the brandy, wondering why it is that he’s cursed to always have this happen with his teammates, why he never seems to learn. The pool lights aren’t turned on and in the moonlight the rippling surface hints at an endless chasm of nothing, a wine-dark sea beneath the stars. Jean-Éric looks into it for a moment, at the shifting swell of his own reflection, thinking how something so essential for life can destroy you with a change of the tide. André says his name, fondness curled around the exasperation in his tone. Jev wonders if he’s been fucking someone, if that’s why his mind reached that conclusion.

He sets the glass down, removing his shirt and pushing off the edge into the pool. The shock of the water covering him as he dives below the surface sets his heart racing, André’s voice vague and muffled, coming to him far away as he swims a length before surfacing for breath, the smooth tiles of the shallow end slippy beneath his feet. André is looking down at him as if he’s crazy, and maybe he is for always wanting more, for not being content with battling in the midfield, or for being Dan’s casual fall-back.

“I don’t want to fuck anyone else,” Jean-Éric says, blinking chlorine out of his eyes, smoothing back his dripping hair. “I don’t want you to, either.”  

André frowns at him, taking a couple of steps into the pool and reaching for Jean-Éric gripping his shoulders tightly. “I’m not.” André shakes Jean-Éric a little as if to make the words sink in. “I haven’t since we started…this.”

Jev’s breath stutters in his throat, he looks away, over at the empty dinner plates still to be cleared away on the table, the wine glass that still holds the imprint of André’s mouth.

“Dan,” Jean-Éric chokes helplessly, catching the way that André’s whole body seems to tighten. Maybe Jev’s drunk more than he thought because he can’t seem to get past that one syllable, the ability to express what he wants to say flowing away from him like the water that laps at his waist, raising gooseflesh over his bare skin.

“It’s okay,” André tells him, sliding his hands up to cup Jev’s neck in an echo of his earlier touch. “Fuck, you’re shaking.”

Jev shivers against him in response, as if only now aware of the fact he’s almost naked. The contrast of the humid night air with the chill of the water that surrounds him is confusing, as if his body doesn’t know how to react, the tension and emotion of the race weekend intermingled with the ever-present jetlag that he wears like a second skin only now fully beginning to seep out from its carefully compartmentalised home in his mind. He leans against André, soothed by the familiarity of his hands, relieved by the admission that whatever this is, it’s important enough to André that his bed isn’t filled with someone new every week, no one hidden away or longed for in Jean-Éric’s place. It isn’t enough, but it’s something.

“I don’t want to hear about Dan,” André rests his forehead against Jev’s, “I only want to know about you. _Fuck_ , I’m bad at this,” he breathes, low and more to himself than to Jean-Éric. “Let’s go inside, come on.”  

Max looks up at them curiously as they walk through the kitchen, a trail of water dripping onto the polished concrete floor from their bodies. André touches a damp hand to Max’s head, a gesture of unconscious affection that makes Jean-Éric smile. Jev lets himself be guided through to the en-suite, André with one hand on his back until the door is closed behind them and he reaches to hang a couple of fresh towels up on the hook next to the sink. Jev’s memory echoes back to earlier, being in here alone with everything he wanted to say.

“You taste of chlorine,” André laughs a little, kissing at the juncture of Jev’s neck and shoulder when they’re both naked, steam clouding the air as the shower reaches temperature. Jev looks up, meeting André’s eyes, surprised at the concern in them, only now realising that what he’s offered André is a glimpse at a side of himself he thought he’d managed to fully eradicate with the successes of this season.

“I shouldn’t have reacted like that, back there,” Jev says as André pulls him under the spray, gasping at the heat of the water against his skin.

André shushes him, pressing him back against the wall so their bodies are flush against each other and kissing him hard before reaching for the shampoo, lathering it in Jev’s hair, lavishing him with a level of care and attention that makes him almost want to shy away. The touch is addictive though and he can’t do anything other than lean into it, biting at his lip as André turns him around and directs him to stand beneath the spray as the soap washes out down his body. Jean-Éric closes his eyes at the sting of the shampoo, pressing back against the heat and solidity of André’s body, content to be touched and manoeuvred however André sees fit. The bathroom lighting is low-hued and warm, the glass screen that separates the shower from the rest of the room cloudy with condensation, slippery under Jev’s palms as he leans his cheek against it.

“I’ve got you,” André whispers, the words getting lost in the roar of the spray. Jev murmurs his agreement as André’s hands stroke down his sides, the touch surprisingly gentle, as if André has identified the fragility he’s tried to laugh off and bury over the preceding months.

“But André you don’t need to do this,” Jev tries to protest as André squeezes some shower gel into his hands, soaping up Jean-Éric’s chest slowly and carefully, every touch of his fingertips is like tenderness bleeding into Jean-Éric’s skin, it makes him fear and yearn at the same time because he’s never wanted like this before.

“Let me,” André replies, his voice low and heavy, the tone making Jev shiver with recognition. He can feel André’s erection pressing up against his arse crack, sending a little tremor through him at the familiarity. André’s hand travels up his stomach, a slick trail of shower gel and water and then he’s guiding Jev to lean his head back so he can sink his teeth into the side of his neck, delicately licking over each press of his teeth until Jev is shaking and biting at his lips.

“C’mon,” André instructs, “lean on me properly.”

Jev does, pushing back against the wet heat of André’s body, further into the path of the water that cascades down over them as he throws his head back to rest properly on André’s shoulder, gasping when André stops pressing his fingers against the marks on his neck and trails his hand down to wrap around his cock.

“Yeah, that’s it,” André licks at the shell of his ear, his free arm wrapping around Jean-Éric’s chest, holding him tightly as he starts to jerk him off. Jean-Éric feels surrounded like this, with the weight of André’s body wrapped around him, André’s cock hot and hard, trapped between their bodies. He knows he’s whimpering embarrassingly, gasping when André adjusts the arm that’s holding him close so that he can pinch at Jev’s nipples at the same time as he rubs his thumb over the head of his cock slowly and deliberately until Jev thrashes and almost loses his footing. André holds him upright, nudging him so he arches his back, hips shifting into the pressure of André's hand working him relentlessly. Jev reaches back, grabbing at André's ass to try and mould them closer together, a fly-away thought in his head that maybe André should be fucking him, but it isn't something he can communicate, lost to the sensation and the water thunderous on the tiles. He’s wound so tightly, so keyed up and caught in the shuddering pleasure of André's hands, that he'd almost forgotten it could end, trying even as he feels his balls tighten and his stomach clench with the oncoming rush of orgasm, to hold on longer, to stay suspended in André's arms like this always. But then the pleasure sharpens and spikes, his knees so nearly giving way as he spills over André's hand with a gasp, feeling as if his legs would slip from under him if it wasn’t for André’s strength holding him up.

“Fuck,” André mutters, bringing his fingers up to his mouth and sucking clean what the water hasn’t already washed away. “Fuck, Jev, lean against the wall.”

Jean-Éric complies, allowing himself to be pushed forward so that his arms are folded against the glass, leaning his face against them as André steps back a little, gripping his hip hard with one hand. The sounds he’s making are filthy, words of French and German interspersed with the slickness of his hand working his cock. Jev can sense how close he is, even unable to see him, something almost more erotic about the frantic movements that Jev can sense but can’t see than if he was facing the other way, on his knees with his mouth open. His whole body still feels over-sensitised from his orgasm, but as the shower turns from hot to lukewarm his mind starts to sink away, wandering back to whether or not he’s fucked something up between them tonight. André groans his name and Jev bites down on his forearm, trying to anchor himself in the moment as the hot splash of André’s come hits his lower back, his teammate sagging forward against him for a moment and kissing between his shoulder blades, chest heaving. André sinks to his knees then, Jean-Eric’s body succumbing to a tremor that seems to shake him from head to toe as he feels André’s tongue licking through the mess on his back and then lower as he bites at the curve of his ass, spreading him wide and sliding the flat of his tongue over his hole, making him tremble.

“You’re mine,” André says quietly when he pulls back, rubbing his thumb gently over Jev’s asshole, reaching for his hand and pulling him down to the floor to kiss him.

 

Jev’s fingers are numb and wrinkled from the water by the time André tips him into bed, disappearing to check on Max. He sags back into the softness of the pillows, stretching his arms out to study the mark he’s made on his forearm from his own teeth. Down the hallway he can hear André talking to Max, an affection in his tone that makes Jean-Éric smile. It would have been better, he thinks, to have kept his mouth shut, but there are risks and risks, and he’s learning how to be brave when it’s something he really wants, when it’s something that’s worth it. There are so many things he should’ve told Dan at the time, years ago; they don’t matter anymore even as he carries them with him, tangled among all the detritus from 2014.  

“You look so out of it,” André smiles when he walks back into the room, leaning against the door frame, flecks of grey in the stone walls setting off the salt and pepper of his hair. Jev blushes slightly, yawning demonstrably. “It’s been an intense few days,” Jev replies, trying to stop any defensiveness from creeping into his voice, the words coloured with the shame of how easily he fell apart under André’s hands back there.  

André frowns, motioning for Jev to move over a bit so he can sit on the side of the bed, stroking his fingers through Jean-Éric’s still-damp hair with such tenderness that it makes Jev want to hide his face in the soft goose down of the pillow. “I have something for you,” André says after a few moments of just looking at him, running his fingers over Jean-Éric’s face, sweeping over the dips and plateaus of his collarbone, creeping beneath the sheets to map the softness of his belly in a way that makes Jev feel known, as if it’s André’s mission to learn every part of him. It makes Jev feel infinitely special and completely terrified, it makes him want to text Dan and say _I hope it’s like this for you too_. Jean-Éric catches his hand as he starts to get up, pulling him in and kissing him, licking at his tongue that tastes sweeter than the numbing sugar of any pill.

“Don’t go anywhere,” André tells him, biting gently at his bottom lip and Jev mouths _never_ at his back when he leaves.

 

“I was going to give this to you when the season’s over,” André says as Jev sits up in bed, adjusting the pillows behind himself. “But I figured maybe now is okay…” he mumbles, turning the large picture frame he’s holding back and forth in his hands. Jean-Éric eyes him questioningly, touching his arm when André resumes his position perched beside him on the bed. “I had it framed last week in Avignon, I thought it might look good in your bedroom in London. If you start missing my face when we’re apart or something.” André laughs but his expression is more serious than Jev has noticed all evening. He turns the frame around in André’s hands, his breath sharpening as he takes in the black and white image. It was Berlin, he remembers, sometime early on in the after-party but late enough that they’d drunk enough to be thoroughly relaxed with each other, the buzz of the podium still alive in his blood and the heat of André’s thigh pressed against his own.

_I want to kiss you so bad,_ Jev had whispered in André’s ear and he recalls at the sight of the photograph, just how he’d felt in that moment as he’d rested his head against his shoulder. He dimly recalls Carl grabbing André’s Leica from the table, the shutter clicking as he’d nestled his face against André’s neck, glancing into the camera with a warm smile and the safety of André's arm around him. They’re both smiling so unguardedly and Jev can see the lightness in his own face, the lines of worry and disappointment he’d worn like a curse for so long evaporated into thin air without him even noticing. “I had two of them printed actually,” André continues, resting his hands over Jean-Éric’s on the top of the frame, looking away at the blankness of the walls, unwilling to meet his eyes. “I thought I’d put one in here.”   

“We look so good together.” Jev looks at the photograph again, something lifting in the pit of his stomach.

“Yeah, I think so too,” André replies, lifting the frame and propping it up against the wall before slipping into bed beside Jev, spooning him tightly.

_You’re mine,_ Jean-Éric remembers, replaying the need in André’s voice as he drifts to sleep.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I totally stole _wine-dark sea_ from Homer.


End file.
